


you should see the things we do

by KelseyO



Category: Killing Eve (TV 2018)
Genre: (question mark?), F/F, I have literally no explanation for this fic, Implied Sexual Content, Oral Sex, Villanelle is the actual biggest dick and we are lucky to have her, general Season 2 spoilers, just read it. just read it
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-05-04
Updated: 2019-05-04
Packaged: 2020-02-18 14:25:45
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,108
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/18701422
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/KelseyO/pseuds/KelseyO
Summary: “Did you think about stabbing me, the last time you were here?”Villanelle turns in place and leans right back against the stainless steel. “I imagined what it might feel like. How you might react. But I did not consider it, no.” She eyes Eve up and down for a beat. “Do you regret stabbing me?”Eve swallows hard. “No.”“Liar.”She takes Eve’s hand, her grip tightening when she feels Eve resist, and slowly pulls it toward her abdomen, slips it under her shirt, and presses her fingertips against a raised patch of skin.Her lips part. Villanelle smirks.Eve presses harder.





	you should see the things we do

**Author's Note:**

> Title from "...Ready for It?" by Taylor Swift. Entirely Shannon's/PieHeda's fault.

She’s not sure exactly how she expected Villanelle to re-enter her life, but she knows it should’ve been more exciting than a knock on her front door.

Eve fully assuming it won’t be Oksana standing on the stoop—because why would it be?—means that when it _is_ Oksana standing on the stoop, Eve is… not ready.

Villanelle _beams_ through Eve’s silence. “Did you get my postcard?”

Her hand is still on the doorknob. “No.”

“Hm,” Villanelle pouts.

Her eyes flit down the left side of the street and then the right, checking for anyone who might be watching or listening, before snapping back to Villanelle’s. “What was it?”

She shrugs. “A really cool painting from a really boring museum. It had these dead guys, and I killed someone just like it showed, then I sent you the postcard so you would know I did it… it was a whole thing.” Pause. “I wrote a nice note, too.”

Eve tries to shush the narcissistic pride bubbling in her chest. “I still knew. Without the card. But Carolyn wouldn’t let me go.”

Villanelle looks like a proud parent. “I should never have doubted you, Eve Polastri.” A thoughtful beat. “How much are they paying you over there, uh? You’re probably ten times smarter than that whale they sent to investigate.”

“She’s pregnant,” Eve says, knowing full well that the person standing in front of her doesn’t give a shit. “Would you—would you like to come in?”

Villanelle glances past Eve, over each of her shoulders. “Will the mustache be upset if we have a secret playdate?”

“He’s at a teaching conference all weekend.”

“You didn’t answer the question,” Villanelle sing-songs.

Eve gives her a look. “He would be pissed if he knew you were here, yeah.”

Villanelle flashes the sweetest smile Eve has ever seen and walks right past her into the house.

She closes and locks the door behind them—

(Holds her breath until Villanelle continues down the hall instead of going upstairs)

—and follows Villanelle into the kitchen, and her stomach lurches at the sight of the world’s most annoying assassin standing in front of her refrigerator for the second time since their lives became intertwined.

“This cannot possibly be _your_ to-do list,” Villanelle observes, sounding almost offended as she studies a piece of paper stuck to the door. “Buy toilet paper? Research smart light bulbs? Is this what he does all day while you’re thinking about me?”

Her feet haven’t stopped moving, and by the time Villanelle stops talking, Eve is close enough to be able to count each of the freckles on the back of her neck.

“Did you think about stabbing me, the last time you were here?”

Villanelle turns in place and leans right back against the stainless steel. “I imagined what it might feel like. How you might react. But I did not consider it, no.” She eyes Eve up and down for a beat. “Do you regret stabbing me?”

Eve swallows hard. “No.”

“Liar.”

She takes Eve’s hand, her grip tightening when she feels Eve resist, and slowly pulls it toward her abdomen, slips it under her shirt, and presses her fingertips against a raised patch of skin.

Her lips part. Villanelle smirks.

Eve presses harder.

Villanelle’s reaction is visceral and she looks just as caught-off-guard as Eve feels; she thinks about what she wants to do next, then decides it might be best to stop thinking altogether.

And so she kneels down on one knee, then on the other, watches Villanelle track her movements like cat staring down a mouse, and slowly lifts up the hem of Villanelle’s top. The scar is fresh and still tender and honestly a bit bigger than Eve was expecting and she traces it left-to-right with her index finger then right-to-left with her thumb.

When she feels her own hot breath against her knuckles, she lets her hand fall away and replaces it with her lips—not in a kissing way, just making contact, but she can feel Villanelle’s muscles contract and she wonders if Villanelle can feel Eve smirking against her skin.

She opens her mouth, lets an exhale tickle the warmth beyond her lips, then lays her tongue flat against the row of stitches and _licks_.

Villanelle’s head hits the refrigerator with a dull _thunk_ and Eve repeats the motion, flat again then pointed and intentional then back to flat, and by the time she decides to suck the skin between her teeth there’s a hand buried deep in her hair, pulling, squeezing, anchoring Eve in place.

Eve wonders how hard she’d have to bite to draw blood, opens her mouth again just as the fingers clutching her hair move to her shirt collar, pull her up, up, up up until she can taste Villanelle’s breath on her tongue.

X

The sharpness of Niko’s stubble is what finally wakes her up, scraping against her cheek as she pulls at a handful of shirt that’s suddenly not as soft as it was a moment ago.

Her eyes blink open and find her husband lying flat on his back beside her, low snores filling their bedroom, and she has to bite down on the edge of the comforter to stop from laughing.

She rolls over, away from Niko, and ghosts a fingertip against her abdomen where she knows she’d find Villanelle’s scar.

Left to right. Right to left.

Her hand drifts lower.

X

“Enough!” Konstantin calls out, and a pillow hits her shoulder blade, but she doesn’t move a muscle; she wants to stay here as long as she can. “Has anyone ever told you how much you moan in your sleep? It’s pornographic.”

Villanelle shoves the pillow away without opening her eyes. “You’re just jealous.”

He barks out a laugh. “Jealous of your imaginary affair with an MI6 agent?”

“I never said I was dreaming about her,” Villanelle replies in her favorite Feigning Ignorance voice, and cracks one eye open when she hears Konstantin kneel beside her.

“Do you know how hard it is to look Eve Polastri in the eye when I know that you—?”

“What does she smell like these days?” Villanelle interrupts. “Has she been wearing that perfume I sent her?”

Konstantin sighs. “You are unbelievable,” he huffs, then stands up and grabs his jacket.

“Get me a coffee.”

“Get yourself a cold shower,” he retorts and slams the door behind him.

Villanelle closes her eyes again, rolls onto her back, and clings to the images Konstantin rudely interrupted, thinking about Eve’s front door and Eve’s hair and Eve’s hands, Eve, Eve, Eve.

She smiles.

She knows she’ll come soon.


End file.
